


pineapples are in my head

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ?? idk this is a vent fic, Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Crying, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food, Gen, Geralt cares, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JASKIER IS NOT FUCKING 18 or some gross age gap, Mental Instability, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Self Harm, anxiety attack, drabble ish, hes old and hes like 40 u shits, holding one another, i mean kinda i guess?? he is getting comfort, lowley gorey/body horror for how i describe stuff, negativity, self deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.”- Mary Oliver, Invitation
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “pineapples are in my head” pork soda by glass animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voice breaking as he looks up and says, “I’m sorry.” The block becomes solid, no more words, now completely a husk. Nobody. 
> 
> Geralt shushes him, petting his hair and rubbing circles in his back, and reassures, “don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong.”

Jaskier feels like he’s going to puke. A sharp hand clunches around his heart, nails piercing it, making more anxiety and fear ooze out into his body. His bones have gone frozen yet splitered as his flesh shakes vigorously. Stomach crawls onto the dirt, mixing flith inside him, poking holes in flesh and crimson, and it makes him want to throw up. Anxiety is taking control of Jaskier as he rocks himself back and forth in a corner of a room he does not remember. 

The feeling has been building up the entire day like a tidal wave gaining power and is now killing a city of innocents. It slinks along every white hardness and tainted muscle that has him digging nails into his palm. 

He doesnt know what he is feeling or what is the constant beat - screams echoing against his walls and mind that he is experiencing. Jaskier doesnt understand why he’s experiencing such overwhelming anxiety and pain. 

What trigged it? Why is he feeling it? Why is he so weird? Why is he so pathetic and gross? weak, disgusting. untalented. bad. why? why? no one loves him. 

“Jaskier,” familiar deep but gentle voice calls. Geralt. 

He lets out a hum of acknowledgement and rocks harder. His hands burn and are becoming wet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers and it is like water to his dry throat. “Jaskier, stop. You’re hurting yourself.” 

He releases his tight hands but moves back and forth faster - almost urgently.  
If he moves enough then maybe the feeling will fly out of him. Maybe the suffering and hand and forest mixing and inside of him will bloom torturous wings and leave him. (It never does.)

Geralt hovers a hand, ready to touch. Jaskier tenses at the presence and closes his eyes, waiting, waiting. He remembers angry father and horrible audiences. The emotional flashbacks do not help. The leafs and dirt rise into trees, and Jaskier feels like puking.

The hand is still in the air, no violence, but Instead a kind voice asks, “is it okay if I touch you?” 

The question lights the tree on fire; he feels warm and less tense. Jaskier hums a tangled answer. There is a beat of silence.  
No touch. Ah, a feeble hum does not tell a lot, so he rasps yes. 

The hand comes to his shaking shoulder and he hears a rocky sigh. The hand on him wavers but is still attached close to him. It is nice and grounding, but also travels inside him and rips his heart open. The fire crackles and touches his lids. Water spill out of him, and the hand steadied on him, waiting for his next action. Jaskier pauses, trying to collect his crumbling emotions but cannot. The hand is there and it grounding yet destroying. 

“Jaskier?” Fuck. The concern and eating kindness. It consumes the bard, heart spreading through out him and fire burning harshly. He still feels like puking, but the edge is off now. 

A deep sigh comes out of him and he rushes into Geralt’s lap before his anxious mind could talk him out of it.  
There is the warmth of another person and care Geralt shows that makes him breakdown. The rubs his back makes the tears burn and mark his eyes red with fire. His mouth hurts from quivering lips, trying to not let the pain out, to try not to wail like a child. 

“It will be okay,” mumbles Geralt, and then there a hand cupping the back of his head, bringing him closer.

The overall giuneau warmth makes him wail. The sound is silent and flooding his lungs. Breathing is not easy neither is existing, and he wails. Wails like a child because he never got to be one and now that anxious and scared child is climbing out of his mouth. 

His heart collapses as a foot kicks at it, and the negative emotion leaks out through the form of tears, snot, and spit from his face. Another scream rips from his throat, and Geralt holds him closer. 

Jaskier tries to speak, to say anything - explain why he is like this, why is crying, why he is so fucking abnormal, but a block slides down his tongue and stop words from rushing out. The child is free and Jaskier is now a husk full of unwanted emotion. 

Unable to speak and tell his sorries and self deprecation, he let’s out another sound instead and cries into Geralt’s chest. Arms wrap around the witcher’s torso and fingers dig into the cloth and thick flesh in attempt to stay in one piece. 

“It will be alright,” soothes Geralt, “I promise Dear Lark. Just give it some time.” 

Jaskier, heart liquid and sliding out of him as his body breaks with every sobs, nods and tugs onto the witcher with an intense need. He needs this right now. This small stability as he shatters in his love’s arms. 

Voice breaking as he looks up and says, “I’m sorry.” The block becomes solid, no more words, now completely a husk. Nobody. 

Geralt shushes him, petting his hair and rubbing circles in his back, and reassures, “don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong.” 

Jaskier pushes his face into Geralt’s chest and lets himself be held together. Right now he will be dust, but later he’ll have Geralt help him to become whole again. Now, he needs to let it out even as his anxiety is furious and killing, he will cry it out because at least it’s a distraction. At least he’s still something. The child is gone but never the anxiety and fear. 

“It will be alright,” reminds Geralt and for a tiny second Jaskier believes it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gods,” he confesses, “I don’t deserve him.”
> 
> He expects for the man to run away, to forget him, but it never happens and just - geralt. Geralt. Geralt. What a fucking man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda lost motivation to complete this and write somewhat good so im sorry in afvance for the lack of fucks given when i wrote this like the grammar,, very bad

It will be alright. He repeats it in in his head like a forever echo and holds onto Geralt. Jaskier sits in Geralt’s lap as they hold onto each other while Jaskier cries silently. The tears have begun to slow down yet burn hotter on the ridges of his eyes. It will be fine. It will be alright. Geralt rumbles something into his ears that sends a pleasing shudder down his spine, and he breathe. Actually breathes. He feels oxygen move back and forth inside him, touching his lungs and nose and roof of mouth - and he breathes. The solid lodge that added with weight in his throat, sliding down into his stomach. It eases away to a marble that he can swallow down. Anxiety stretches inside his stomach, a model of fears and worries, and shatters with the marble. Shatters with Geralt rubbing his back and saying, “it’s going to be fine” as he rocks Jaskier like a child.

Jaskier no longer feels like puking.

Instead, he feels like a baby ready to sleep. His grip on Geralt lightens, and he moves more easily with the rocking. Head falling back and forth until Geralt whispers in his ear, “feeling better?”

Jaskier feels his muscles have calmed down, no, relax like a cat, and he smells the sweat and tears on his face and Geralt’s shirt. He doesn’t blush or say something sarcastic, but he rests his head back on his lover’s shoulder and says, “better.” 

Geralt hums and pulls Jaskier to his side, cradling him. “Let’s go to bed for a bit,” says Geralt in a deep voice, and his head falls back on the witcher’s arm as he says, “I need drink and food, dear.” 

The witcher pauses. Face blank except for the scrunch of his eyebrowns and turn lips and says, “oh.” 

Jaskier giggles and tries to slither out the pair of arms but is stopped by them tightening. “Stop,” weakly says Geralt, “let me take care of you.” The bard stops moving and let’s himself be carried to the bed in their room. 

The journey to the bed doesn’t take long since Jaskier had his episode on floor, across the bed and near the door. Steps creak and Jaskier smiles loosely at them. He’s lucky to have this. 

Geralt sets him on his back and a vocal noise vibrates from the witcher’s chest when Jaskier holds onto his hand and softly says, “thank you.” 

Then, the man pulls the covers over the bard and whispers, “I’ll be back.” 

“Hmm.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. He hears steps walk to the door, door opens, door closes, and then the recideding sounds of walking. It’s peaceful and kind - the sounds of his witcher, of his lover. 

Geralt is noble and strong, but he is also soft and nice. The man is so human and warm that it makes Jaskier want to cry because his boyfriend didn’t leave him to suffer through his attack alone. Geralt didn’t make fun of him or slap him and tell him “stop it”. 

Geralt treats him so well, as if he deserves to be treated with good. Jaskier has never been treated like the way Geralt treats him. The bard has been abused and used by countless people; By his own family, by past lovers who betray him, by strangers who only expect and know the rumors to be true. It hurts him, but Geralt is his light. Not in a weird worship way. Maybe once he did, his interal child with glowing eyes at the sight of true humanity, but now its not like that. He has learned to love Geralt for he is, no who he thinks or wants him to be. Jaskier sighs and looks at the ceiling. 

“Gods,” he confesses, “I don’t deserve him.”

He expects for the man to run away, to forget him, but it never happens and just - geralt. Geralt. Geralt. What a fucking man. 

The door opens, and Jaskier smells food. He shoots right up with a smile. “You have returned!” 

Geralt chuckles. He kisses his head, murmuring, “told you I would come back” and sets the tray of food in his calloused hands. 

Jaskier looks down at it and sees a grey soup with a light gradient bread. Geralt holds a cup of milk, which he sets on the small table next to the bed. The food tastes decent, but Jaskier would complain about it if he had the energy to. While he dips the bread in soup, Geralt pulls up a chair. The wood rumbling loudly against their ears, and then he takes a silent seat, watching Jaskier. Jaskier doesn’t make comment how the witcher stares with an annoying fondness and relief in his eyes, and Geralt doesn’t comment that Jaskier is still shaking and looks like shit. 

He finishes last of his food with a loud slurp from his spoon. Geralt takes the tray from his hand and gives him the cup of milk. Jaskier downs all of it and lets out a big sigh. The cup is put down with a soft thunder of wood from harsh force. Jaskier jumps at it, and Geralt flinches but successfully ignores it. He fiddles with his hands, looking down as Geralt continues to watch him like he’s the fucking world. That’s too much but also exactly right for Jaskier because he does want to be somebody's world, but he isn't good enough. It is branded into his brain he will never be good enough, but Geralt reaches out and wipes off the crumbs and milk off his face. 

His thumb rough, yet pure angelical softness and whispers, “beautiful.”

Their eyes meet, and they kiss deep. Geralt tastes like salt and venison, and his chap lips fit perfectly against his. Then, they separate and Jaskier holds his hands. He holds those softly rough hands that have been through hell and asks, “hold me?”

Geralt gets out of his seat and climbs over Jaskier on the bed. He moves his body under the covers, and then wraps those safe and pure arms around his chest and stomach; Jaskier feels safe. He feels so fucking safe it could make him cry. 

Geralt holds him and whispers, “it will be alright.” 

jaskier feels a stray tear fall and replies, “yeah, yeah it will.” 

They stay like that until the darkness takes him, and he falls asleep safe and sound. Eerything will be alright.


End file.
